A Calendar of Days - 2017

Suicidal again. No progress, no hopes. Life seeming like a series of unconscious betrayals and abuses. Forward progress bleak, grim. Where’s my fucking wallet again. Sick of the world. Of the climbers. Of the doers. What are they doing? Where are they trying to get? I don’t want to be there. I don’t see the point in doing it. Is it helping? How is it helping? There’s such a mess going on. Such a fucking mess. Even my indolence is a form of ambition. Ambition for a life that doesn’t disgust me.

Later- I read all of the Baffler and all of Harper's this week. Escapism, moral masturbation. No actual masturbation. Cousin Jessica and her kids are here this week. She and I have no interest in one another. Her daughter Winter and Lille spend all their time together. This morning in the car on the way to the YMCA, where I was being toted with all the kids, a group into which I perennially fall (es terrible), Emma explained that the kids at her school lived in the country but they didn’t do all the nice country things you imagine, instead they just watched television and smoked cigarettes. I supposed by 'the things you would imagine' she meant riding ponies and harvesting vegetables. I told her she was being classist and she said, “but it’s true!”

The house is full of pseudomusic: One of Jessica’s smaller male children huffing and puffing one note on a harmonica, someone playing a transposed, rushed, and incomplete piece on the piano, or else a clunky mormon hymn, Sabina’s screeching violin, some operatic screaming. I recognize that my loathing of everyone and inability to take part is a personal canker.
However, it all seems wrong. All this prosperity seems so corrupt. Raising children with their lessons and their internships and their unconscious entitlement, while the adults worry about houses and cars and brands of hummus.
Unexpectedly and incompletely disenfranchised, I suddenly care about disenfranchisement. But not in any productive way, only as a lip-curling excuse not to try for all of these things. I’m writing because I’m afraid of alienating my friends with this constant hand wringing hopelessness. Feel totally cut off from community. Suicidal, as it were.

Later:
Maybe this free falling floating terrifying rootlessness is precursor to some structure that I can build all by myself and that will be way better.

Cat is a classic conversation dominator a la barb. Interrupts stories to tell them herself, answers questions put to other people, gets angry when interrupted.

Is confidence that you are a genius really an ingredient to be a genius? And isn’t that a kind of stupidity?

Four and a half hours early for my flight. In the car, characteristically tone-deaf, Cat turned every subject mercilessly to herself. She’s well intentioned at least. It was terribly uncomfortable, the other night when she expressed how important it was to her that I think she was a good mother. Her vulnerability is so total at times, and unexpected and expectant.

At the TSA check, an overtly racist advertisement for pre-check shows a young red-headed white man late for a business flight. His colleagues, an older white man, a black woman, and a non black person of color, are all waiting for him, ready. They’re better dressed and better prepared and they have his boarding pass. They’re frustrated that he is late. At the airport, the red-head flies through TSA pre check while his colleagues have to wait in line. At the meeting, he stands in front and delivers the pitch and receives a toast from the client.
The trappings of capitalism, of the security state, irritate me. A billboard advertises a way for groceries to “talk to” customers in “real time” through an app. A sign as I enter to receive my special interview advises travelers that new rules will require ID to travel starting in 2018. So this is the last time I will have the privilege of travelling even though my wallet is lost.

At the American Airlines desk, I was called “fella”, and “sir”, which makes me smug. The woman giving me a pat down asked if I was a writer. I was a little confused but I said “yeah, I do write” and then the other person asked me if I travel a lot. “More now, I’m kind of homeless”. Yeash.

Last night spent time talking alone with my oldest nephew Philip. Got a book recommendation, told him I was trans, told him I’m a leftist. He confessed to a crisis of faith after his mission. Said that he set forth a set of conditions to be met, asking God to prove itself. That they were all fulfilled. He said “And almost all of them… I mean, all of the things I asked for happened in the next 24 hours”. I didn’t ask him for any further explanation. I don’t know exactly why I choose not to let people discuss their religion with me. Part of it is that it isn’t interesting. But there’s something else too. I would rather not suffer through their illogic, I don’t have the reserves of politeness.

Later:
Depressed at Julia’s house. Was done with this party almost as soon as we arrived. Need something. Suicidal again. Wandering around thinking how cool it would be to be dead. How I just can’t do that to Paul. Seems like going far away, dropping off the grid, making it look like an accident is the only way. Hated travelling at the airport. I have no money. I don’t want to be partying. For people with a job relaxing is great. For me it’s anxiety inducing. Need to be doing something, creating something.

Later:

No need to go to method so early, ,since I’m having trouble falling asleep. Wrote some dialogue after a conversation with Timmy, (ha!) with Panther.
Called Panther White, without quite meaning to, or knowing why. He was surprised, and expressed outrage through his good nature. Writing a lot of poetry lately, though not capturing it all.

Planning day.

My big cassette player battery light finally came on. Listening to smashing pumpkins mixtape.

July 6
Did a good job biking around applying for jobs. Still need to send my resume over to METHOD before going over there tomorrow morning around 7:15. Then to Buzzbrews at 8:30 for the [unfinished]

so I tied her hair around a piece of paper she wrote on, put it in a jar with a black candle and buried it in my yard

What will be lost, and how soon?

In an open hallway where no one thinks to pass, I sit historic. hear the tuning of an orchestra. This freedom at the cost of others. For companion, memory.

the sky is what I know without having to ask. I’ve never felt so human.

keep things around
pretend to be
one of the things you keep around

here’s the good news
someone will love you

we can not hope nor ought
to make conquest one of another
the cards drawn
We may leisurely lay them
down

I felt a slipping in me
a chip chip chipping
a movement a shifting

The good is all directional
The food is fourth dimensional

The weight of ice

Pissed and pretty in shadow stripe
Pissed and turning up inside

Pens and papers
Wishes and wills

People come and go go go go

Just A little scab scab scab scab

I’ve thrown Bear into the dumpster. Watched it sail over the lip into the blackness, after one last look at the wine-stained smile and cottony socket where one eye was pushed way into the head. Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye, goodbye. Goodbye after goodbye after goodbye.

Fight with Faye. Spent many hours on Virginiad’s final but can’t get the photographs to show the numbers. Angry. Unwilling to continue to live this way. Happy to pack my things and leave. Not happy to be told that I don’t understand pain.

I always want to memorize things, learn them thoroughly. But I tread environments.

Traveling, San Angelo. Things with Faye are good. Checked out of the Econolodge today. Been thinking about Diego's grasp of when things happened: where we were living, when we broke up, etc. All the way back. I have only the vaguest idea of these chronologies. Talking to Elaine and Hannah on Gchat. Waiting for Faye to get back to her parents house from the phone store.

Later, 10 pm, watching a video of Julia and Faye and Jim as kids playing on stage in the mall in Nepal. It’s pretty awesome. Faye's belting like she’s born to do, Julia playing it extremely cool, Jim has the long hair.

Showered and wearing my rainbow nightie, sitting in the grandma chair.

Four or five days of no weed.

Got a call from Liza. At her house, Schmo’s been pooping and puking. Diane changed her mind and said no to taking her. No more options for Schmo. I don’t know if I can bear this sadness. I don’t know how. Liza is going to wait until Monday to take her to a shelter. Paul has no feelings for other people and made me feel worse. Nobody has any help. No more solutions. Oh Schmo, my dear friend with whom I hoped to spend many more years in happy companionship. If I had known that this would happen, would I ever have left the way that I did?

I feel my heart dying. I’m so sad. Listening to the same album that I listened to over and over again when I was 14 and learning, and almost disbelieving, the terrible twists that life can take and no one will save you from them. I do not want this sadness! I have a sunburn. The lotion I put on my forehead to soothe it is getting into my eyes as I cry and wipe my tears away. I’ve been crying for so long.

I am so tired of crying. Why must there be constant sorrow? But how could I be happy now? I’ve been crying for an hour and a half, and not knowing what to do with myself or my feelings, and having pain in my asshole where I’ve had hemmrhoids for a week. It seems so perverse, so wrong, to go on. To suffer so much and have to continue to live.

I know that these sorrows will be written on my face and on my heart for the rest of my life. It seems perverse to ask of what use they may be. I do not want them, I do not want them, I do not want them. Listening to In the Aeroplane over the Sea.

Paul was the least helpful person to talk to because his response was perfunctory, light-hearted, and inconsiderate, then Diego who tried to make me feel better with rationalizations. Max was the best because she didn’t try to make things seem okay at all.

October 9

I’m going to just go back for her. I’m going back for her. She’s not going to a shelter. She’s my family.

Replying to Craigslist housing ads now. I wonder how much money I’ll have. I’m earning about five hundred dollars a week here, and I will have worked four full weeks, plus an estimated 800 for my computer, minus maybe 700 for airfares to dallas and to detroit. Conservatively I’ll have 1600 to drop immediately on housing.

That means I can pay security and first month on an 800 dollar apartment and I’ll have to get a job right away.

October 20

Me and my chicken counting. Pop has closed during lunches and now after this weekend I’m down to one job. I’ll be lucky to escape Durango with 1000 bucks! Sigh.

Four days gone by lightning fast. Life is terrifying. What if my computer doesn’t sell?

1300 in the bank, 80 in the purse, card lost. No car. No phone. phew!

Worked all day, sort of. Remembered myself. Towards evening, moved while watching stranger things and stretched my poor leg tendons. Ate a ton. Reached ecstasy, talking to max, found out real talk that she doesn’t approve of Diego, and had a little moment of really feeling good about myself and the world and things. Said hi to Lucy online, but couldn’t think what else to say.

Max, dear max. Max who loves me, max whom I love. Max that messy vision, as real as anybody I know.

Opened my Roth IRA today, finally.

Long day. Many words moving through the head all day. Been doing some light mental work separating experience from verbalization, delaying the amount of time between the feeling, memory, or idea, and it’s crystallization as word. Ideated an important moment where Bill Ted meets Julian and Julian smiles a sort of miraculous infectious smile that shakes BT.

Will hear from Kenny yes or no tonight around 8:30.

AIRPORT GATE A15
I spent exactly all of my money to make this happen. The 40 dollars in my pocket, borrowed from Liza, will get me home from DTW, Home!
Home in the unknown, in the cold.
2 hours 28 minutes, Boeing 737.
This morning I mailed two seventy pound boxes with clothes, my bed, and some books and art supplies.
Liza packed me a snack: celery sticks, an apple, nuts, and cheese. When we said goodbye, her face got reddish and tears stood in her eyes.

The attic I’m renting has no furnace yet. Tonight will be uncomfortable. I don’t have any bedding with me. Schmo won’t have any litter.

Out the window flat, suburban Texas is dappled broadly by honey sunlight. Just as we’re getting a glimpse of downtown Dallas we pass through the clouds and the ground disappears. When we descend we see scrubby, reddish forests. The light is wan and clear.

I ask my cab driver stiff, formal questions: What freeway is this? How long does it take to get to Ann Arbor? Is there light rail? Do you think it will rain tomorrow?
When he drops me off he gives me a break on the fare and a card with his phone number.

I love my place. The back door has two locks and opens onto a staircase. There’s a big, grimy, cavernous basement. At the second landing, a locked door with the number 3.

I have some trouble finding the lockbox. The downstairs neighbor opens her door to help me out. Before closing it again she says,
“Be careful ok? Especially in this neighborhood. Don’t trust nobody and don’t be too friendly. Welcome to Michigan.

I unlock the door to the attic. More stairs, white and narrow with a switchback and another landing halfway up. The ceiling slopes low. A vestibule at the top of the stairs has a window into the back yard and a final locked door. There are three little silver keys on the ring from the lockbox. The third one that I try brings me in.

All the ceilings in my place are sloped. There’s a kitchen, a little wider than a hallway, then a doorway that slopes down with the ceiling. The apartment is composed of three alcoves which meet in the middle. The largest of the three alcoves extends from the door towards the front of the house where there is a large front window. The walls are covered in coarse corkboard panels with big chunks missing. There is a thick colorless carpet, like in a church, which comes up in ribbons in the corners.

The only way to walk into the bathroom without hitting your head is to walk along the center wall. It is smaller than the kitchen. Sitting on the toilet, I bump my knees against the wall. There is no mirror and no shower.

I let Schmo out of her carrier and she runs behind the bathtub.

A ceramic plate with two baby tigers hangs above the window. In the kitchen half of a ripped one-dollar bill is sitting on the floor.

I designate the central space. A cheap space heater designed to look like an old-fashioned stove sits on a patch of linoleum tiles.

The front alcove is where I will sleep. The one on the right from the kitchen, where a shelf and a hanging rod have been installed over the window, will be my office. The other cubby where I found the plate will be the closet.

I take the plate down and put some cat food on it, but Schmo has disappeared from behind the bathtub.

I’m walking in small contented circles thinking about how much I like the place. Closing the windows.

There’s a banging downstairs and I wonder if someone is hammering.
It isn’t so loud, but I step out of the kitchen to see what’s going on. Someone is knocking on my door!

I go down the stairs and open the stairwell door. A police officer is behind it, and behind him the neighbor who welcomed me to Michigan.

“What are you doing here?” He asks angrily. He is white and middle aged and holding his baton up as though here were going to beat down the door with it.
I invite him in, but he only repeats the question.
“I asked what are you doing here.”
I’m not sure what to say, so I tell him I just got here and I’m renting this apartment.
“Won’t you please come in?” I ask, and he does. As he steps up there’s room for a second officer to come around the corner.

They’ve received a call that someone is here who shouldn’t be here. The angry officer wants to know how I got in, when I got here and how, If I have an ID, if I paid money, how much, to whom, and whether I have proof.

“Haven’t I seen you somewhere?” I recognize you. Maybe I pulled you over?”
“Certainly not,” I tell him. “ I’ve been in Michigan for less than three hours.
He wants to see my key, wants to know if I’ve ever been here before and why I came. “This isn’t Detroit,” he tells me when I explain. “It’s close.” I say.
The other police officer runs my ID and takes notes. He is younger and black. The angry one refers to him as “my partner”. While the angry officer reports to someone on his walkie talkie, the younger one informs me that I may have been scammed. For some reason they keep passing between them the bank receipt I showed them from when I deposited money into the landlord’s account. His name is Kenneth Holmes.

I am not completely surprised by all this.

Kenny and I worked out a deal that was a real roll of the dice. I wanted to get to Michigan but I didn’t have a job, just some small savings. He was selling the house and the new owners didn’t want a tenant on the third floor because there was no furnace. I wanted a furnace, sure, but I wanted to move out of my sister’s guest bedroom before Thanksgiving even more. So I begged Kenny to let me move in before the sale was final.

“Please have a backup plan” he had texted me the day after I bought my plane ticket.

I had faced my fears in Texas though, moved through terror to steely calm and towards excitement so that arriving here in my attic felt like a dream come true.

Still gruff and angry, police officer number one tells me I may have to go, and then he begins to leave. I offer my phone number and partner takes it down.

Immediately following their departure Jessica comes up all apologies and explanations. I tell her with a smile that perhaps the less I know the better, and that I sure hope I can stay.

She calls Kenny a scam artist, tells me to watch out for leaks, says the roof is “gone”, that she’s sure it will be fine.

I don’t follow her down the stairs until she calls out to me that I might want to lock my door, which I then go down and do, putting five locks between myself and the street.

Schmo reappears from somewhere with Duct tape stuck to her chest. It’s dark now and getting very cold, so I sit right next to the space heater and listen to the barking of dogs. My windows are very high above the street with views on all three sides. It feels like a crow’s nest.
It’s a strange feeling, home so far away from anything I know, in a freezing empty attic in a city that isn’t quite Detroit, and so few people know I’m here. What kind of life will I make now, with today as my starting day?

I take a walk, trying to get to the river, but fences and industrial yards keep me from it. There are many beautiful houses in my neighborhood, and many large dogs. It is night, but I go to the nearby library to check their hours. It is only open Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday, 10 to 6. Across the street I go to the gas station to ask if they sell bus passes. The clerk doesn’t understand what I mean by “bus pass”.
My phone rings. I hope it’s Max, but it’s someone calling to tell me that they’re outside with my pizza. I tell them they have the wrong number, but when I get home, sure enough there’s someone there with a pizza! Diego ordered me one!

Saturday.
I set out around 9 into the wet world. Remembering the maps I looked at in Texas, I walk up a street called Jefferson. The sky looks like it’s made of mist but the air is clear. Last night I slept on the floor in front of the space heater, lying on my side and flipping over now and then like a rotisserie chicken.

My coat is warm enough. Jefferson has a lot of gas stations on it. The clerks stand behind plate windows.
“Gotta be careful down here, these motherfuckers down here something else. Detroit isn’t a good city, it’s bad,” says the man I meet under the gazebo at the park. He offers me weed but I tell him I don’t have any money. He asks if I have family here and I tell him no.
“I know you’re kidding me,” he says.

The buses going downtown stop early in the morning, so I walk back home. On the way I go to the food store. The shelves are mostly empty and I have to go track someone down to check me out. I buy soap, shampoo, and toilet paper.

Jefferson street has gas stations, discount stores, liquor stores, churches, and some diners. There’s an elementary school and the Ecorse city center.
I try to get to the river again but again I run into private industrial lots instead.

When I get back home just before noon it’s starting to rain. The first floor neighbor is outside with her grey and white pitt bull puppy straining on its leash. She sees I am carrying cat litter and tells me she has a cat too, named Noodle.

In the basement I find a folding card table, a litter box, and big piles of winter clothes. I find one knit glove but can’t find the other.

I bring up the card table and wash it with a rag. I also bring the litter box and some warm looking hooded sweatshirts up to the attic.

Schmo is under the old dresser and won’t come out.

While I’m arranging the table I get a call from the new owner of the house, LaMarr. He is angry, but not at me. I tell him I like it here, that yes it’s cold and it would be nice to have a furnace. He tells me to ask Kenny for my money back, that I can stay for now. “This guy’s a asshole,” he says, breaking his professionalism for a moment.

This afternoon I received a call from a friend of my sister’s. You’ve got to get out of Ecorse, she said. After hanging up I started to believe her.

I start freaking out. I start to feel cold, and poor, and afraid. I start to think that finding a job is going to be impossible. I start to think that I failed. I started making calls.

Diego has me do breathing exercises with him
Max starts looking for other places for me to live and making inquiries in Chicago.
Liza tells me to get an airbnb on the other side of town.
Christine asks why I didn’t stay longer in Colorado.
Faye says we can get a place wherever we want.
Paul says he’ll get my ticket.

I find that I’m having trouble thinking.

I think I cry a little.

Day 5

I missed the last direct bus downtown at 8:13 am because in a wine drunk last night I lost my keys. They were out on the back porch, where I had sat and called Collette. Talked to everyone last night: Becca, Liza, Christine, Adam, Max, Diego, Faye, Julia, Tulip, Collette.

A random cousin is coming up, Becca, for some kind of Thanksgiving holiday. I’m wearing a big basement hoodie that I washed, long underwear, thick jeans, and my heavy peacoat for a combined 50 minute wait for busses. My stomach hurts and my body feels bad. A guy on the bus looks like Joe and that makes me miss Joe. The last couple days I’ve spent walking, reading, on the phone, and watching Angels in America.

I walked around downtown this morning. My fingers are a little stiff. I didn’t find any kale.

I am at the museum, but the art makes me sad. I do not understand it. I keep seeing pieces I think I have seen before, but then I think I'm mistaken. Marina Abromovic holds a bowl of milk in front of a glowing white window. I think: maybe I have to start by deciding what not to be.

I get a photo of the self portrait of Otto Dix to show the barber.

The best exhibit is portraits of Detroit hip hop artists. Juan Atkins, Deej Loaf, Jessica Care, Neisha Neshae, Slum Village, Detroit Che, Blood Sweat Tears, Blade Icewood. Stacey Hotwaxxx Hale.

4:50 pm, light rain.
It was grey but a little warmer when I got out of the museum around 3:30.

Bad luck looking for bookstores.

There’s an electric trolley that runs from downtown, perpendicular to the river through New Center. The Qline.

At the stops are heaters you can activate with a button.

I wasn’t hungry again all day today, but I went to Whole Foods knowing I wouldn’t be able to find anything in Ecorse tonight. Loaded up a little too much with hot bar mashed potatoes but did get kale and carrots. Was late getting back to the bus stop but thankfully the bus was late too. Now waiting to arrive at Westfield, soothe Schmo, and see if my boxes are here and whether I have any chance of getting them up the stairs.

November 24, 2019
The airbnb I'm staying at with cousin Becca is a little weird. It’s unclear whether anyone lives here. There’s very little furniture. One of the doors doesn’t unlock, and one of them doesn’t lock. The pillowcases are scratchy. The blanket is a strange synthetic. There’s a hole in the sheet fitted sheet and no topsheet. The window into the bathroom does not have a curtain and we have to put our towels on in the shower.
Woke early, head-ache and throat rasp. Becca and I had so much to talk about last night. (sister) Becca called around eleven and we patched her in on our slumber party. Feeling? Still sad, confused, afraid, but last night as I was falling asleep my hopeful thoughts made brand new shining ideas.
I smell sour from the sweat of sleeping hot.

November 24, 2019
Wine & Pixies with Becca at a hotel full of Grateful Dead concertgoers. We saw Eastern Market today, and Ann Arbor. I had my photo of Otto Dix’s self-portrait ready to show to the barber, but lost faith at the last minute.
Drinks at Night, record shopping, mural gazing, red-sunset spectacle, highway cruisin’, Docs life.

Epilogue: I made a long headband, designed with a horizon fading blue to black and white birds flying in a row, it was beautiful. I sent it to Olivia with these true words:

This is a headband
Of flocking waterbirds

I saw them sail
Over the dusky sea

Winding the weather

Long ago I thought of
You and saw the birds

Flying between daylight
and gusty darkening

I designed this pattern
To match that vision

November 20

Here I am, alone in the dark in the attic, a little wine in the belly, a little eerie music on the youtube, dreaming again, peacefully. Peacefully dreaming, and reflecting a little.

Nov 24, 2017

My dear Taylor,
I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to find you when you’ve always been right under my nose. The last 36 hours have been some of my favorite and most carefree in a long time. I know this is a difficult and exciting time for you right now as the future is so unknown, but I have no doubt that you will make yourself (and everyone else) amazed at the path you forge. I see lots of laughter, happiness and success in your future.

A few of the things I love about you:
-your sense of wonder
-your brilliance! (both intellectually and in the way you shine)
-you are so quick to laugh and dance
-your non-conformity, people like us will never be happy until we figure out our own way.

I could go on and on, but its time for us to go out for a last night on the town until we reunite again!

Much love my dear
Your cousin Becca

Heartbog. It’s nine am and today is going to be a very long day. It’s Sunday. Reading Ulysses, trying not to forget the meaning of the words. I don’t want to live but I do, and I will, and I must make the best of it.

A long and slow panic, a tight gripping, oh no, oh no, oh no.

I have no voice and I am coughing a lot, my throat is raw and phlegmy.

Getting on the phone is a way to feel better, but it doesn’t really solve anything.

Better
Change
Progress
Reputation
Self-Image
Ambition
Contentment

Fighting off a bevy of negative thoughts. Packing.

November 29

In Durango, Read, “The Fire Next Time” and “Ozma of OZ”. Having pretty regular suicidal thoughts but not plans. I still don’t think it’s an option. I promised cousin Becca, after all. We have a non-suicide pact that we made in the record store in Ann Arbor. I don’t have enough money in my account to pick up my prescription (only 40 dollars). Still not sure I want to do anything with my life. Kelsey and Billy are kind, but I feel distant. I weigh 135 pounds. Kelsey asked me today if I see any glimmers of hope. Nope. Wanted to have a good violent cry but only made it to the tears in my eyes phase.

Last day off work. Reading Six Degrees, about the importance of weak ties. Feeling better, all around better, more hopeful. Yesterday hiking with Carlos had a lot of great thinkings. About positive ways of framing my life and situation, about flexibility for lab jobs, about my research interests, about the frame story of tms and more plot structure, reading the self-help book Becca sent and opening my heart to it.

Swearing reduces my expression.

Feeling happy today, and yesterday mostly.

Received an early, unexpected package from Mom. Snipped the card into bits before opening it, it was the only thing to do, the thing frozen in my hand like a bomb.

Correspondence
To Hannah to mend her broken heart
To Elna to tell her about my journeys
To Amy in Portland
To Olivia if she responds to me
To Becca for thank yous
To Paul for thank yous
To Max for beauty
To Becca for art
To Elaine with poems
To Taylor, inquisitively

Quick day at Macho’s. To get my schedule, I will call Haley and then Beto. Haley didn’t answer, Beto hung up before telling me a schedule. I’d like to get a schedule before I call Sarah at Durango Academic Coaches.

Imagine a positive, loving future.
Images:
Boat
Sun on water
Strong hands
Strong arms
Strong back
Steady stance
Rocking

Images
Slides, screens
Driving through trees
Water in a glass

Side jobs on side jobs
Tucking tut-tut
A dusken flourish
Demeanor of a lion
Voice of stone

December 6

Picked up a shift last night, working again tonight and tomorrow at Macho’s.

December 7

Oh boy oh boy
I love electronic music so much
I wrote today
And worked
And smoked
And wrote/worked
Got ideas
Wanted a job
Made the calls
Forgot that Phil and Kelsey could hear my music down here.

Time to go to bed
To take off my shoes and go to bed
To take off my shoes and take off my jacket and take off my jeans and take off my thermal and take off my socks. And go to sleep.

Estrella jalisco

My first taste reaction is to sharpness, brightness. What does this have to do with the yellow light filtering through the bottle in the window? The gloves at my right side whisper, “stolen”